


Over And Over

by AnxiousCoffee (TheHallowedAngel)



Category: Alien Invasion: S.U.M.1
Genre: Disordered Eating, Emetophilia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forced Vomiting, Gen, OCD, S.U.M.1 has OCD, Self-Induced Vomiting, Vomiting, emeto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 22:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16669966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHallowedAngel/pseuds/AnxiousCoffee
Summary: Life on the surface had sounded like a blessing, little did he know that it would start to dig at his sanity.AKA S.U.M.1 is having a bad time, but OCD and disordered eating (not an ED) can do that to you.





	Over And Over

It was the same every damn day. Wake up at 5 am to the sound of an automated, preprogrammed announcement. Get out of bed. Go out onto the balcony and do sit ups on the railing. Go back inside and have a shower. Get dressed. Eat breakfast. Brush his teeth. Watch the cameras. Patrol outside. Watch the camera. Somewhere in between he fit in two more meals and a cigarette and multiple almost-breakdowns. And then he would go to bed and repeat the process tomorrow.

He was so sick of all this.

The food tasted of nothing, just pellets you add poorly filtered tap water to and mix into a gritty paste. At least Doc likes it. S.U.M.1 stared down at the mush on his spoon, then the smudges that streaked the handle. He hadn't cleaned it right.

Shame.

The urge to scrub it over again dug at the back of his head, clawing against the inside of his skull and making his hair stand on end. His hands felt dirty, he could almost feel the grime under his fingernails, tainting his blood. He didn't have any control. They had all the control.

He clenched his free fist and shoved the spoon in his mouth, stubbornly finishing the entire meal and in one swift movement swiped it off the table. He grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as the mess tin clattered against the wall. 

Filthy. 

He glared at the metal table top, a deep frown on his face and tears welling up in his eyes. There were streaks all over that too.

Doc stood up on his back legs and acknowledged S.U.M.1's sudden change in mood with a twitch if his whiskers, waving his paws in his direction. 

S.U.M.1 didn't see him, his eyes were closed again and his hands were over his ears, gently rocking back and forth.

Multiple almost-breakdowns, one breakdown.

-

He was leaning on the railing, cigarette between his index and middle finger. 37 days left; he felt sick.

He stubbed the cigarette out against the railing and threw it over, watching it fall with a lazy look on his face. 

He could feel the food in his stomach, eaten with a dirty spoon. Tainted. It writhed and bubbled and pushes against the walls of his stomach. He felt so sick.

He hung his head in his hands, messing with his fringe.

Not sick enough.

Planting one hand on the rail, he took his right index finger and opened his mouth, pushing his finger to the back of his throat. He drove it further back, pressing down on his tongue. He jerked forwards once, throat contracting against his finger. 

He was dirty, unclean. He had to keep clean. 

He pushed his hand as far into his mouth as his lips would allow, gagging again and withdrawing his fingers long enough to spit over the ledge, strings of saliva connecting his hand to his mouth. Again he pressed his fingers back, tongue starting to ache from the way it was forced to sit in his mouth, fingernails scratching his vocal chords as he desperately tried to gain even this tiny amount of control.

Each time he gagged it remained unproductive, catching his knuckles with his teeth and eventually making them bleed. The taste of blood sat heavy on his tongue and somehow he knew that would help. His breath hitched against his fingertips and a pathetic wash of water and tiny flecks of much coated the palm and back of his hand, dripping down his arm. 

It felt good. He was making that happen.

Through the tears caught in his lashes, he saw movement in the trees, heard the drawn out tone of whatever it was. It was a low call that could only be described as ancient, rumbling as though it took effort to produce. And in the same moment he felt something push up his throat with a weak wretch, snatching his fingers out of his mouth and hanging his upper body over the drop. 

He held his right hand away from him, as far away as his arm could manage, and kept the other where it was, gripping the railing so tightly that all the blood had dissipated from his knuckles.

His stomach rolled underneath his shirt and sludge poured from his mouth with very little sound, some splattering against the metal bar he was pressing his body against. Another gag, this time it was thicker and harder to bring up, a strangled caught on the end of it as his body strained to get it up.

He couldn't stop now, he had to take control, he had to keep his free will. 

He forced two fingers past his teeth and gagged himself for the third time, much rougher than he had been. He felt the mess wash over his skin again but this time he didn't care, at this point he felt like he was trying to shove his fist down his throat. In a passing thought he wondered if that would get the job done, regardless of how impossible he knew it was. 

Gasping and choking he finally felt his stomach was empty enough to suffice, letting his dripping hand fall back down against the rail and then staggering backwards. His back slammed against the wall of the compound and he slid down to the ground, leaning his head back and panting.

His hands came to pull at his shirt, not caring that he was smearing sick all down his front. He yanked it over his head, wiping it across his face before throwing it over the balcony. 

37 days. Fear was driving him mad, he felt now that he could barely tell the difference between reality and fiction, hallucinations bleeding into his every waking moment. They weren't real, in the forest. Not real. At least that's what they're telling him, and even after all this he somehow felt inclined to believe them. 

Gathering the bitterness in his mouth, he turned his head and spat it as far as he could. With an unwelcome realisation, he knitted his brown together and bore gritted teeth.

He was hungry.

**Author's Note:**

> Legitimately seems like this is the first fic for this fandom, rip. Hope you enjoyed it anyways, y'all should go watch the film (There's a puke scene in it somewhere too so bonus)


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